


Honeymoon

by StumbleineSuperqueen



Series: Badlands, etc. [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Deep Throating, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Throat Fucking, also horrifying murder-high fucking, but also some will pov, even the happy ending isn't all sunshine & rainbows, every love is unique, except the gay kind because these boys are Gay, handjobs, i got your hannibal pov right here, i really did not want to write a marriage fic but it like...just happened??, restless murderers in paradise, slow sensual love-making also, the games we play, the memory palace is literally the greatest fic-writing deus ex machina, will and hannibal beating the ever-loving shit out of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-08 01:14:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7737352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StumbleineSuperqueen/pseuds/StumbleineSuperqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will peers into the bathroom mirror and finds that, despite his valiant efforts, his face is still festooned with ribbons of blood, cum, and spit. Tough meat, blue balls, a raw throat and a sticky, black-and-blue face like the floor of a public shithouse...Hannibal got his revenge alright, and he may even think Will didn't notice. That narcissistic...superior piece of shit.</p><p>TW: rough sex, violence</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lovers' Quarrel

It's evening, and Will is doing the dishes. These days it feels less like a chore and more like an opportunity for active meditation, personal time. The normalcy of it is soothing. It's practically, dare he even think it, domestic.

He sometimes teases Hannibal with Freddie Lounds' derisive "murder husbands" epitaph, but secretly he's fond of the idea. He never felt like a husband to Molly – just a temporary interloper with too many secrets. When he thinks of Hannibal as his husband, the word conjures up images of two tiny grooms on a sculpted cake; gold rings; a huge bed with a fluffy white down comforter to wake in together, in a villa somewhere on the Continent, on the first morning of a real honeymoon. It's silly, and not like them at all, and really pretty ridiculous. Those sentimental things can never be a part of their story. They made their vows in blood, and that's all they need, or at least all they're ever going to get.

Will is musing on these private thoughts, polishing yet another piece of Hannibal's inconveniently non-dishwasher-safe fine china, when the door slams open with a bang and he instinctively ducks to avoid the knife that flies with arrow-like accuracy through the air recently occupied by his back. Crouching behind the butcher block, he catches just a glimpse of Hannibal as he attempts to roll to the side towards the living room. He doesn't make it far – Hannibal tackles him.

Hannibal's weight on his chest knocks the wind out of Will and before he can get his bearings the first blow lands. His skull knocks against the hardwood and his ears ring. Blood dribbles from his mouth.

"Hannibal..." he mutters through his split lip, trying to refocus his eyes.

"You will never tire of provoking me, it seems," Hannibal pants. He sounds disappointed, which means he's livid. There is a heavy thud as something hits the floor next to Will's head. He turns his face to the left and finds himself remaking the acquaintance of the hitman he hired last night. He looks a little different now that his neck ends in a ragged stump.

"This isn't your style at all," says Will, frowning. "I was hoping you'd come back with something for dinner tonight."

Hannibal stares down at him, still catching his breath, and Will stares back. Then Hannibal hits him again, the other side of his jaw this time, and Will grunts, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

"You insult me," Hannibal says. "He never saw me before I took him. A rank amateur."

Will is counting his teeth with his tongue. They're all still there, although a few of them wobble. "On the contrary," he says. "He came highly recommended. He guaranteed satisfaction, provided references. They all checked out. His former employers positively raved."

Hannibal strips off his jacket. Will eyes him and struggles briefly to free his arms from where they're pinned beneath Hannibal's knees, with no luck. He sighs and adds, "I even asked him to bring back proof the deed had been done."

"And what was that?" Hannibal asks. Now he's using his teeth to pull off his gloves.

"Your dick."

"How appropriate," Hannibal scoffs, his mouth twitching momentarily into half a grin.

"I thought it was funny."

Hannibal unzips his leather motorcycle pants and pulls out the organ in question, half hard already, and begins to stroke himself to full erection as Will looks on with badly concealed anticipation.

"Is this what you hoped would happen?" Hannibal asks softly. "Did you think killing your man would excite me, that I would bring that excitement home to you?"

Will meets his eyes and nods, red-faced. He's breathing fast now, and his own cock is rock hard. Hannibal leans over to grab a fistful of Will's curls and pulls his head up, far enough to force his cock into Will's mouth. It's an awkward angle but Will flicks his eyes up to Hannibal's and sucks, teasing with his tongue at the underside of the head. Hannibal sighs with pleasure and lets him do it, for a minute. Then he pulls away and gets up, helping Will to his feet and leading him to the bedroom.

Will begins to undress, but Hannibal says, "Stop." Will looks up inquiringly. Hannibal motions to the bed and Will sits.

Hannibal studies him. "Lay down on your back," he says, "and let your head drop over the edge of the bed." Obediently, Will does so.

As soon as he gets himself settled Hannibal grabs his face and forces his jaw open, shoving his cock into Will's mouth before he's ready. Will splutters and chokes – he tries to propel himself backwards but Hannibal grabs his arms and orders, "Calm down. Relax your throat. You can breathe through your nose."

Will keeps struggling against Hannibal's grip, but he does pull air through his nose. Hannibal's cock is gagging him, driving irresistibly forward. He tears up, and drool and blood from his split lip threaten to run into his eyes.

"You may continue resisting if you like," Hannibal tells him calmly, "but it will be much more comfortable to relax, or you may vomit." Will whines nasally and considers biting Hannibal, but he isn't sure he wants to deal with the reaction that might provoke. He breathes for a moment, then concentrates on unclenching the muscles of his throat and reining in his gag reflex.

"Good," Hannibal whispers. He begins thrusting into Will's mouth, groaning in appreciation of the tightness of his throat. "Yes, Will..." To Will's relief, he doesn't seem interested in drawing this out – Hannibal's thrusts become increasingly jerky and quick, and without warning he comes in Will's mouth. Mostly.

Will sits up and swallows, attempting to wipe the various fluids from his face with a pointed look of annoyance in Hannibal's direction. Hannibal misses it entirely, as he is now sitting by the window with a cigarette in hand, looking out into the night. Without turning around he says to Will, "That will do for now on. It will be very difficult for us to remain inconspicuous if I am forced to continue contending with assassins around every corner."

Will picks the cigarette from his fingers and takes a drag. "I thought you might have a little fun with him." Hannibal rises and kisses him.

"I did," he says, "but I had more with you, after. Now." The cigarette is ground out in the little cut crystal ashtray on the windowsill, and Hannibal tilts Will's face up by his chin, looking him over, stroking the bruise blooming on his jaw with one thumb. To the untrained eye he probably looks suitably affectionate: to Will his expression is hatefully smug. "Wash up and come to the kitchen with me. I'm afraid our friend was not very tender, but your hopes were not in vain: I have brought us something for dinner."

Will peers into the bathroom mirror and finds that, despite his valiant efforts, his face is still festooned with ribbons of blood, cum, and spit. Tough meat, blue balls, a raw throat and a sticky, black-and-blue face like the floor of a public shithouse...Hannibal got his revenge alright, and he may even think Will didn't notice. _That narcissistic...superior piece of shit,_ Will thinks, all his earlier daydreams about white weddings shrivelling away to nothing. It was one thing to be openly scorned by Hannibal – this brand of condescending covert disrespect was usually reserved for _people._ Will spit into the bathtub, both because his mouth tasted awful and because he was furious.

Oh, two could play at this game, and Will could wait. He would not be waiting long for Hannibal to give him his opening, or rather his provocation.

 

It's a beautiful day and the sky above the ocean is clear and cloudless. Hannibal is seated on the back porch, making a sketch of the little picketed path that leads down to the beach in a small journal. It's not Florence, but he supposes some might find it...charming. He is sharpening his pencil with his scalpel, considering exactly where to lay his next mark, when Will limps over the nearest dune and makes his way unsteadily down the path. Hannibal smiles pleasantly at him. As soon as he begins to gloat, however, the part of his mind that overlaps with Will's whispers that he's made a big mistake.

Reaching the porch, Will throws his fishing gear to the ground and lunges for Hannibal's throat. Hannibal dodges a millisecond too late and the table is overturned as Will knocks him to the porch. They wrestle – Hannibal gets an elbow in the eye socket and Will is relieved of a decent chunk of his scalp. It's been a long time since they truly tried to physically remove each other from this plane of existence. _It would appear the honeymoon is over,_ Hannibal thinks with something akin to regret. _Or maybe, it's starting._ He sees his opportunity and drives the heel of his bare foot into Will's nose.

While Will chokes on the blood gushing backwards down his throat and tries to clear his vision, Hannibal grabs for the scalpel he spies under the rocking loveseat, but even half-blind and gagging Will manages to kick it away and get his hands around Hannibal's neck. For a moment Hannibal merely blinks in surprise.

"You _ass_ ," Will hisses, his face red, his hair dripping seawater on Hannibal's face. He squeezes Hannibal's neck with all his strength and bangs the back of his head against the deck. Hannibal's vision turns to static. "You _bastard_ , you were _so_ worried about being conspicuous—"

Hannibal has a rejoinder but no way to communicate it. Somehow Will crushes his neck even more tightly, putting his thumbs on Hannibal's carotid arteries and cutting off the blood supply to his brain. His hands, which had been pulling at Will's grip, drop to the floor as his muscles go limp. Swirling fractal patterns swim before his eyes and as he passes out, Will's voice sounds robotic and echoey in his ears: "You unbelievable _bastard_."

 

When Hannibal comes to, he first registers that he has been spared his life for the time being, then that his neck is throbbing and his left eye is swollen shut. He groans, and Will hits him open-handed across the face.

"That's fair," he acknowledges, his voice gravelly and barely audible.

"I know."

Will is sitting in bed next to him, where he has propped Hannibal up against the headboard with pillows. Hannibal watches him from one eye without turning his head. He gets up and paces around the room, evidently too angry to be still.

"Where is the man I sent now?"

"The bottom of the _fucking_ ocean," Will seethes. _What a waste,_ Hannibal thinks regretfully. Will sits back down on the bed and shakes his head with an incredulous chuckle. "I've been trying to think of what to do to you, but I just can't decide. So I made sure you'll stay here until I can."

Hannibal tries to move his arms and discovers his hands have been bound behind his back with zipties – his ankles are also tied. How irritating. He begins to sit up only to find his neck secured tightly to the post against which his head has been resting. He looks at Will reproachfully.

"Really—" he begins, but Will cuts him off with "Really, Dr. Lecter," and turns to leave the room. In the doorframe he stops, and turns slowly with a devilish look on his face. Hannibal waits to hear what Will's idea is. But Will says nothing, just crosses the room again and unzips Hannibal's fly.

"Not very original," Hannibal says.

"Maybe not." Will begins to jerk him off. Hannibal shifts uncomfortably against his bonds as the warm tension begins in his hips. It feels good...he would like it not to, but it does. His lack of control bothers him.

Will spits on his hand and keeps going, and Hannibal's losing his breath and closing his eyes. Although his limbs are itching to change position he supposes that the more he relaxes into this, the sooner Will will let him go. The base of his cock aches and he moans – and Will stops.

"I think I'll take a shower," he says, standing. "I still have sand in my hair." He walks into the bathroom and slams the door.

"I underestimated you, darling," Hannibal says softly to the empty room. "Apologies."

 

Will takes an extra long shower, letting the water run over him until he can think again. He re-enters the bedroom rubbing a towel through his hair, wincing when he accidentally hits his raw bald spot, and checks Hannibal's bonds. Hannibal looks quite put out, but he maintains his eternal air of dignity as he asks, "Are you finished?"

"No," Will says. He runs his fingers along Hannibal's cock, considers, and leans down to take it into his mouth. It doesn't take long to get Hannibal hard again. Will begins to jerk the shaft as he sucks the head and Hannibal groans softly.

Will pulls out every stop, coating his cock with hot saliva, alternating between sucking and slow tight strokes, bobbing his head up and down quickly on it until Hannibal is sweating and straining desperately upward with his hips.

"Will," he whispers hoarsely, knowing it will do no good, "Will—"

"You know," Will says mischievously, resurfacing, "I just remembered, I was looking forward to finishing that book tonight." He walks around to his side of the bed and flops to the mattress, grabbing his book from the nightstand and removing his bookmark. Hannibal closes his eyes and exhales shakily.

"I will kill you for this."

"You can try." Will turns a page. "After I'm done with you. And if I don't kill you first."

 

With few other options, Hannibal retreats to the memory place. In his former Baltimore office he climbs a ladder to find the notebook where he has neatly copied out all the recipes he has compiled over the years especially for Will, so won't have to waste time when the moment comes. _Not just anything will do for him,_ Hannibal muses. He carries the journal back down the ladder, seating himself in his chair across from the one patients used to occupy, the poor saps.

Crossing his legs, he flicks through the pages, rejecting most of the recipes outright. _I want to taste_ him _...most of these are far too heavy. How unthinking I was in the beginning. Something very simple would be best, perhaps even salt and pepper alone, like a fine cut of steak...very rare, of course. Just seared to seal him in...such a shame I was forced to leave those beautifully seasoned cast iron skillets here. It will take years to recreate them._

As he continues this train of thought, he notices how uncomfortable he is. Hannibal shifts in his chair and crosses his legs to the other side, but he still feels it. His groin is unpleasantly heavy. He closes the notebook and stares at the empty seat across from him.

 _Maybe quite rare indeed. Perhaps tartare, or carpaccio...I will have to prepare it right away in that case, and leave most of the butchering for later. That may present a problem. Currently we do not have—_ I _do not have access to a large enough freezer to put him on ice whole._ He pauses. He does not care for the way he thinks automatically of _we_ and _us_ now.

Hannibal taps a finger on the cover of the notebook. Even here he feels physically restless, which irritates him to no end. While he was incarcerated, he spent long periods of time, sometimes entire days or weeks, without ever leaving the palace, and absolutely nothing that went on outside his mind could intrude upon his solitude. _It gave Alana fits,_ he recalls fondly. Other than himself, Will Graham is the only other one has ever been able to influence what happens in his private chambers.

In fact...he is doing it at the moment. Hannibal realizes he's hard again, his stiff cock straining uncomfortably against his suit pants.

 

Hannibal opens his eyes in the bedroom to Will with his mouth wrapped around Hannibal's cock once again. He's on his knees, one to either side of Hannibal's bound legs, leaning on one hand and jerking himself off with the other as he sucks Hannibal. He appears unaware that Hannibal has returned.

"Will," Hannibal says softly. Will jumps in surprise and sits up, looking embarrassed, then annoyed. He gets up and sits on the end of the bed, facing away from him.

"Darling," Hannibal tries. Will swears.

"You would never, never pull this shit on me before we left," he berates the wall. "You saw me, and I saw you, and that was all we needed, and you would have never tried to sweet-talk me like some idiot child or expected me not to realize you came practically down my nose on purpose yesterday."

Hannibal is silent. He waits to hear the rest of his charges.

"We're blind," Will says eventually. He sounds despairing. "How can it be like this? We're the same. We're one. Aren't we? Was it just everyone trying to keep us apart? Did you turn me into— _this,_ into _you,_ for fucking nothing? I'm a monster," he breaks off.

Will gets up and starts pacing again. He looks a mess; his nose is broken (Hannibal makes a mental note to set it later), his knuckles are purple and red, his shower-wet curls only make the places where Hannibal ripped out his hair more obvious and grotesque. Finally he sits by the window, picks up his pack of Marlboro Reds, puts it back down, picks it up again and throws it at the bed as he leaves the room.

Hannibal listens carefully until he detects the sound of Will banging cabinets and possibly breaking things in the kitchen, meaning he hasn't left the house and Hannibal won't have to dislocate his thumbs again to avoid pissing himself in their bed. This is good news.

He thinks about yesterday. It's true that he was angry, but that itself is strange. Generally people don't anger him, merely irritate or amuse to varying degrees. Most people are not capable of truly angering him, not intrinsically; he sees them as simply very limited, very short-sighted cattle, and no one in his right mind could be angry at a cow that wandered into the road and blocked traffic. The beast is simply incapable of knowing better. One can guide the cow out of the road to its field or to the slaughterhouse as one sees fit, and it will never be the wiser, not even when the hammer lands.

Will...he thinks better of Will, to put it mildly. In some ways he supposes he has begun to take that extremely unusual fact for granted. With Will to engage his interest, it is rather easy to forget all about the first several decades of his life, endured in an agony of boredom. Of course he enjoyed his own company (of course), and he would never have reached the end of all the interesting things there were to know and read and hear and do in this world, and if nothing else people were good for short-term games, but before Will had happened to him he had no idea what loneliness could even be. He understood the concept, but he had categorized it vaguely with all the other things people had in their heads that he apparently did not. The first time Bedelia had connected the word with him, he had been startled and thought about it for a long time after he left the session. Loneliness. A friend. A friend identically different, who could truly see him, like spending years stranded on an island he had thought to be uninhabited and one day encountering another shipwrecked man who had been thinking the same thing.

As if on cue, Will reenters the room clutching a bottle of his beloved Wild Turkey and throws himself into the chair by the window without looking at him. He cannot have been gone long, maybe twenty minutes, but he seems well along the path to the bender he's acting ready to embark on.

Hannibal clears his throat painfully and tries again. "Will, please join me. And perhaps untie me." Will turns his head.

"Sure. May as well." He produces his pocket knife and moves to Hannibal's side, freeing his neck, then arms, then legs. He stands there for a moment thinking and then shrugs. "If you want to kill me, you will. If you want to leave, you will. You would have gotten out eventually either way."

"I cannot deny that." Hannibal grimaces as he tries to slap life back into his arms. Will watches him for a moment and then bursts out laughing.

"That's a prize-winning shiner there."

Hannibal smiles at him, pleased to see him laugh. There's another one – a feeling. Is that happiness? Love? "You held your own."

"So did you. Until I got my hands on you."

Hannibal touches his neck gingerly. Will climbs over him into bed and takes a swig of Wild Turkey from the bottle.

"You drink like an old pro."

"Yeah, well." Will smiles again, but it doesn't touch his eyes this time. It's his old _fine how are you_ smile. "I had to do something while you were away."

 _Away._ "You had Molly."

"Let's not talk about Molly."

Hannibal lets it be. They've never really spoken about the wife Will left for him. At this point there's not much to say. The idea of being the other woman amuses him a little, though. Will takes another gulp.

"I have a proposal for you, Will," Hannibal says presently.

"A proposal?" Will laughs again. It's almost a giggle. He's getting drunk. "I do."

"Do you?" Hannibal studies him through his good eye. This is the first time the idea has occurred to him. "You would marry me?"

"Is that what you were asking?" Will says, suddenly serious.

"No."

Will makes a strange face and lights a cigarette. Hannibal thinks.

"Earlier," he says, "while I was in the memory palace and you were pleasuring yourself." Will continues to look away steadfastly. "What were you thinking about?"

"Killing you," Will says without hesitation. "Strangling you like I did earlier, but not stopping. Watching the life leave your body."

"An old classic," Hannibal says lightly. "We share a mirrored fantasy."

Will turns back towards him and kisses him. Apparently drinking has softened his rage for the time being. Then he hesitates.

"There's something else," he says uneasily. Hannibal looks at him curiously.

"I want...to kill with you again," Will breathes. His hand is sneaking into his boxers, the only thing he put on after his shower. The sight rekindles the banked fire in Hannibal. "I want you to hire someone...tell him where to find me, somewhere remote. And then...we'll murder him." Will turns his face away, flushing. "And..."

"And?" Hannibal prompts. Will looks incredibly uncomfortable and incredibly aroused. His hand is moving. Gently Hannibal kisses him and tugs his boxers down to release his erection, tight against his stomach. He pushes Will's hand away and takes it in his own fist, resting his head in the crook of Will's shoulder, both of them breathing hard. Hannibal can tell it won't take much to push Will over the edge – the fantasy he's describing is something he wants desperately, has probably been thinking about long before tonight.

"And we...fuck...next to him...as he _dies,"_ he moans, and the words spill out of him as cum dribbles down Hannibal's rapidly pumping fist. "We fuck as he begs for help and his mother and _God...ohh..."_ His orgasm ebbing, Will leans back against the headboard, winded and dripping sweat.

Hannibal takes the bottle before it can drop from Will's hand and sets it on the nightstand. He wraps Will in his arms and kisses him. Will puts his arms around Hannibal's waist and leans against his chest.

"We've stayed out of trouble long enough. We're stagnating, mauling each other in our frustration," he murmurs in Will's ear. "Predators cannot be caged forever. You shall have your heart's desire, my love."

Despite the tantrum induced by his earlier attempts at pet-naming, this one elicits only a weak chuckle. "Your love."

"My love," he repeats. "I have none. You are the only love I have. An externalized emotion."

"How sentimental."

Their hands wander, and Hannibal rolls on top of him, pulling his legs up and kissing the back of his thighs. He moves down to lick him and Will twists on the bed and sighs "mmmm..." Hannibal spends a while there, eating Will out, fingering him, finding the spot he likes. Will's cock stays where it is, lying against his thigh, but Hannibal's not interested in getting him hard again as much as making him feel good. He can't exactly atone for his actions, because he's not sorry, and he suspects he's never been sorry, but he doesn't take any pleasure in Will's anger (and its consequences for him), or his sadness.

Hannibal moves up to kiss Will's chest and enters him slowly. He doesn't so much thrust as roll and grind against him, gently and deliberately, holding Will against him and kissing his neck, his shoulders, the bruises on his jaw. Will lets out little gasps and hums low in his throat. He strokes Hannibal's hair, grazes his fingertips along his back, slides his hand between them to feel where they join, feel the place where Hannibal is moving in and out of his body.

"I didn't know you could fuck me like this, Hannibal," he whispers. "I like it."

"I like it too." He kisses Will carefully, cognizant of his split lip. "I should have shown you long before this."

Will says softly, "I love you. I love you, Hannibal."

"I didn't realize you were so drunk."

He laughs. "Fuck you."

"I love you, darling. To the best of my abilities."

"I know. I see it."

For a long time they don't speak, losing themselves in this unexplored territory, in each other's bodies. They blur, like they used to blur, only soft and slow and gradual, from the inside out.

"You feel...perfect," Hannibal gasps, as the long drawn-out build of pleasure approaches its apex. "Ahh..." Will kisses his face everywhere as he comes.


	2. Honeymoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You'd be the Bride of Frankenstein." Will lobs a flower at Hannibal. "A version of the tale where Victor falls for his creation, the man he made in his own image, forgetting all about poor Elizabeth. A neat solution. She can live this time."
> 
> TW: rough sex, violence

Will lays the fish out in the cooler, packing ice around it. He scratches the bandage on his tender nose and unscrews his thermos to take a gulp of coffee. The river is two hours' drive from their beachside home, higher up, and at this elevation a cold mist clings to the ground so early in the morning. Above the mountains, the sun is just barely beginning to shine.

He is baiting another hook when he hears it: the crack of a stick, a few hundred yards away. Will does not give any sign he's heard. He casts the line and watches it float downstream. He's been having good luck this morning. One more is probably all his cooler will fit. This one, anyway. A much larger cooler, stocked with dry ice, waits behind a nearby clump of bushes.

Among the trees, Hannibal slips behind the man silently, watching as he lines up his shot. He waits as long as possible before tapping him on the shoulder. The shot goes wide and echoes against the mountains, sending panicked clouds of birds into the sky. Hannibal easily wraps him in a headlock.

"What—the fuck—" He thrashes in Hannibal's grip but can't turn enough to see his face.

"I heard you a while ago," Will informs the man. His head swivels towards Will's voice as he approaches and his body stiffens. Will is holding a knife. "I'm beginning to think you're all lying on your resumes about being pros."

"Where would you like to begin, darling?" Hannibal asks.

"Well, you tell me, Doctor," Will responds. "I want to incapacitate him, but keep him alive and bleeding for as long as possible."

Hannibal considers as the man struggles and squawks, shouting obscenities into the chill dawn air. Together they take him apart.

 

On a nice crisp picnic blanket laid out on the rocky ground, Will and Hannibal are in each other's arms, drenched in blood, kissing and caressing. The man lies barely two feet away, alive, but twitching in his death throes. Hannibal straddles Will's hips and pulls off his shirt, then begins unbuttoning Will's flannel and trailing kisses down his chest. Will puts his arms over his head and stretches his back, breathing hard.

Hannibal takes out Will's cock, already painfully stiff, and sucks it sloppily, transferring blood everywhere he touches. Will's moan of need mingles with the moans of pain from his left.

"I want you _in me,"_ he begs. "Please—"

Hannibal doesn't need to hear any more. He yanks down Will's jeans and tosses them away unceremoniously. They land on the man and he spasms, crying out. Hannibal smirks and pulls two fingers out of his mouth, rubbing them around Will's hole.

"Look at what you've done," he says, as Will lets out a little noise of pleasure and opens his legs further. Hannibal pushes into Will with two fingers, not bothering to be gentle, finger-fucking him.

"We," Will gasps. "Look at what we've done, Hannibal. Look at what...oh, fuck, _more_...look at what we're capable of. We're...monsters."

Hannibal bites his thigh and presses a third finger inside Will, spreading and stretching him, pushing deep. He finds the spot that makes Will's body arch and works it until Will is practically frantic, desperate and begging. Hannibal gets to his knees and unbuckles his pants, pulling Will's legs to either side of his hips, and drives into him steadily until his cock is completely inside Will. Will cries out; the man grunts, roused by the noise, then shudders and goes limp.

By now the man's death barely touches Hannibal's awareness. Will feels incredible around him, hot and tight and perfect. Hannibal leans closer as Will's body allows, but Will throws his arms around Hannibal's neck and yanks him all the way down, skin-to-skin. His kisses are frenzied – Hannibal kisses him back, sucking and biting his lips, savoring the taste of his mouth.

"Hannibal..." Will moans, clutching at his back, the pitch of his voice rising on the last syllable. Hannibal is drunk on the blood, the power, Will's pleading voice. He rests his head on Will's chest for leverage, thrusting into him faster and faster, wanting to claim Will's body in sight of their shared kill, wanting to mark him forever. Will whispers _"yes, yes, fuck, fuck, yes..."_ in his ear over and over, breathless, lost in it.

Suddenly he makes a strangled sound and shivers violently; Hannibal feels hot wetness between them. Will's eyes roll up, lids fluttering, lips parted in silent ecstasy – he looks so goddamn beautiful that Hannibal feels a strange tightness in his chest. In that moment he would have killed anyone in the world, a thousand men, for Will. He would have done anything.

 

They lie together on the blood-soaked blanket for a long time, watching the sun climb the sky. Neither of them wants to move, but eventually Hannibal decides he should get the dirty work out of the way. Will leaves him to it – he doesn't know how to process a corpse into cuts of meat and he's not sure this is the time to find out. After all, he has to eat something, and he never quite made it past grilled cheese and scrambled eggs himself.

It's not a quick job, and Will is exhausted. Eventually he nods off.

Someone is stroking his hair. Will opens his eyes and winces; the sun is directly overhead. He rolls to one side to face Hannibal. He's covered nearly head-to-toe in blood now. Will's glad they had the foresight to pick a location with a body of water.

"I brought something for you," Hannibal says. "Give me your hand. The other one."

Praying it's not some kind of medical oddity found in the hitman's innards, Will obliges him. Hannibal drops a gold band into his palm.

"This is new," Will yawns, stretching. "Since when do you go through your victims' pockets?"

"He has no further need of it."

For a second Will feels a little bad to know the man was married. Then he realizes Hannibal just gave him a gold wedding ring.

"You're making fun of me."

"Never, darling."

Will takes it off and puts it back on, unsure.

"I already have a wedding ring." He still wears Molly's ring; he doesn't know what else to do with it.

"Then I'll wear this one."

"No...here." Will takes both rings off and puts the one he wore for Molly on Hannibal's finger, feeling both silly and emotional. He tries to keep himself from giving the moment any significance. "This way you have one from me, and I have one from...you."

"Yes." Hannibal watches him play with the ring, twisting it, looking at it with an odd expression on his face. "Let's go home."

 

Hannibal ties back the curtains and takes a moment to assess the weather. Gray. Of course, it does not have to be, but it's appropriate for this place, he thinks. He remembers this office in grays, steel blues, cold light.

He wanders the room, making tiny adjustments to anything misaligned. On his desk he discovers a glass vase containing a spray of white flowers, and he is standing there fiddling with the arrangement when he hears the knock.

"Come in."

Will steps in and closes the door behind him. He surveys the room.

"This is a bit self-indulgent, Doctor, don't you think?"

"To whom can I look for indulgence if not myself?"

Will rolls his eyes. _He's certainly always done that._ He takes his old seat, waiting for Hannibal to finish fussing with the flower arrangement. Finally Hannibal joins him, settling into his place across from Will with relish and pressing his fingertips together.

"What is this?" Will asks, before Hannibal can launch into any long monologues.

"What it's always been. Whatever you need it to be."

"No, I mean..." He waves his arm. _"This._ Literally."

"This is where we blur, where we _began_ to blur. This is the place where our memory palaces overlap. I thought it would be appropriate."

Will frowns. "Is your whole house here?"

"Yes," says Hannibal briskly, communicating that this is self-evident, and furthermore, unimportant. "But not everything here is mine. Those are yours." He indicates the flowers.

"White carnations, chrysanthemums, calla lilies, gardenias...baby's breath." Hannibal watches as Will moves to examine the bouquet. "You have quite a grasp on the Victorian language of flowers."

"I don't," says Will, unsettled.

"Interesting. Perhaps you have borrowed mine."

"It looks like a wedding bouquet."

"It is. The flowers chosen convey truth, innocence...a pure but secret love."

"Innocence." Will rolls a tiny blossom of baby's breath between his fingers.

"I too found it to be an odd choice. Are you feeling...matrimonial, Will?"

Will pulls a stem of baby's breath from the vase and continues to toy with it as he sits back down. "I was—am—married. I don't know if it suits me."

"Were you a good husband to Molly?"

Will doesn't say anything for a moment. He picks a flower off the baby's blossom and tosses it across the room. Hannibal's eyes follow it disapprovingly.

"I tried to be."

"Difficult to be the man of the house when you felt like half a man?"

"I've told you before," Will says carefully, "I don't like talking about Molly."

"Do you regret departing the way you did?"

The angle is different enough to allow Will to answer the question. "No, I don't. A long time ago...when I met Chiyoh, she asked me if I was already dead. It wasn't really a question. She knew. She could see the places you'd mortally wounded me."

"So Molly was a widow from the day you carried her over the threshold. Perhaps she sensed it would be only a matter of time before you laid yourself to rest."

"She was perceptive. Maybe she was that perceptive."

"Maybe so." Hannibal looks into his eyes. "Is that the bouquet she held at your wedding?"

"No." Will clears his throat. His mouth is dry. Hannibal considers him.

"Then what could possibly have marriage on your mind, Will?"

"Don't play dumb, Dr. Lecter. You're bad at it." _In a way...it was smart to bring me here. This was always our level playing field. We can spar here without distraction._

"Apologies." Hannibal smiles, self-indulgently. "I may not be the demure bride you're looking for."

"You'd be the Bride of Frankenstein." He lobs a flower at Hannibal. "A version of the tale where Victor falls for his creation, the man he made in his own image, forgetting all about poor Elizabeth. A neat solution. She can live this time."

"Scholars of film have long argued that James Whale's 1935 _Bride of Frankenstein,_ made for Universal Pictures, can be read as a clear reflection of its director's homosexuality." The corner of Hannibal's mouth twitches. "Victor Frankenstein is seduced away from his marital bed by his former mentor, another man, for the purpose of engaging with him in unnatural acts of procreation—the imbuing of the Bride with life, in defiance of God."

Will gives him a dirty look. Hannibal merely raises his eyebrows and continues.

"Our union was not made fruitful through science, but death, although both disciplines allow man to play God. Through Hobbs' death you rebirthed Abigail into the world as our daughter. It would seem you are the generative half of our partnership."

"Look, this is silly," Will says, rubbing a hand through his hair uncomfortably. "We can never get married. Most likely we're both legally dead."

"In some other world..." Hannibal pauses. "Do you see us there, two husbands? Richer, poorer, sickness and health, 'til death do us part?"

Will thinks. "Yes."

"What is it about a marriage that appeals to you?"

"All marriages are formalities," he says slowly. "Marriage can't strengthen what's weak or make permanent what's fundamentally temporary. It's just...a gesture. Of goodwill. It's a promise to try. Without a ceremony, a license, a tax deduction...it just means you intend to do right by him, to love him as long and as well as you can, to the best of your abilities. A reminder to yourself, that you said you'd try. And so did he."

Hannibal is listening, resting his chin in his hand, studying his face with those odd burgundy eyes.

"It just seems so...not meant for us." Will exhales. "Like we would be corrupting one of the few good things. Making a mockery of it."

"We made our vows in blood. Reforging them in good Christian gold rings and 'I do's seems perverse to you. You would drape a cloth over our hands when we slip on each other's rings, to hide our love from God. Over our heads when you kiss the groom, like Magritte."

Will turns his eyes up to Hannibal's face. "But you don't hide from God."

"You remember."

"Yes."

"You've retreated, Will. Are you retreating from me, or yourself?" Hannibal closes his eyes and breathes deeply. He's remembering. "You had done it. You had become. We stood unashamed before man and God alike, fully ourselves, fully one, touching the highest peak of our potential as the sea raged below. Finally you had stepped behind the veil with me, and I..."

He opens his eyes. He seems overcome; to Will's astonishment, a tear falls down his cheek. "I felt that I stood on sacred ground. I felt like Bernini's St. Teresa in her ecstasy, pierced through with the golden spear: 'The pain was so great, that it made me moan; and yet so surpassing was the sweetness of this excessive pain, that I could not wish to be rid of it.'"

Will swallows, and his own eyes feel a little wet. He remembers. He does remember. They are silent.

"Now you would tell me that you are afraid."

"I'm not," Will says, choking up just a bit. "I'm not afraid. I just...forgot." _That when there was no place for us in this world, you let me take you out of it. That you let me kill you so we'd never have to part again._

Hannibal leans forward, elbows on his knees, and holds out his hand. Will takes it.

"Then marry me."

 

On the little porch they sit silently, watching the waves, and the beach grass swaying, and the moon. Hannibal rests his hand on Will's knee; Will strokes it, and looks down to see the moonlight glint off the wedding band on Hannibal's duplicated middle finger. Technically, Will supposes, it is his third finger.

"We cannot stay dead forever, Will," Hannibal says presently. "We will destroy each other, like big cats kept together in too small a cage. We died, but we have not yet been truly restored to life. Sooner or later we must leave the comfortable womb of purgatory and be reborn."

"I know." Will sighs. Killing a man with Hannibal, their second murder as a team, re-awakened something in him that hasn't slept since they came home. He still tastes the blood...still feels the thrill of moving as one with him...can still recall the feeling of breathtaking power and arousal that coursed through his body. He won't be able to put it out of his head for long. This is who he is. He knows that now.

"We can't do it here, though. I can't look at Jack again, not from the other side of the veil. I can't let Walter see me in the newspaper beside mutilated bodies. And I _cannot_ bear another 'murder husbands' exposé in _Tattle Crime_."

Hannibal rocks the loveseat with his foot. "Perhaps somewhere warm. South America."

"Yes. I never want to be cold again. Too many near-death experiences."

"Yes." Hannibal smiles at him. "A bloody honeymoon. Something new."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please comment if you enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> P.S. I just realized...this is not even the multi-chaptered fic I mentioned before. I'm so sorry haha.

**Author's Note:**

> Guys............I literally am not really sure what happened here. This was supposed to be fun?? And light?? It was supposed be like "sending people to kill each other as foreplay, only literally" and then like...this...happened?? So I hope you like it! Please please comment if you enjoy it! Tumblr: stumbleine-superqueen.tumblr.com
> 
> P.S. If you read this really fast after I post it, the whole thing is written already (it was actually just super long & I figured I should split it in half) so please do go on to the second part right away!


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